Nobody's Home
by Irrevocably Obsessed
Summary: Based off of Nobody's Home by Avril Lavigne. When Bella gets kicked out of the house, she relies on her guitar to get her though the day. What happens when she meets a blonde girl with a gun, a pixie, and a handsome bronze-haired man? OOC, AH, VIOLENCE!
1. Preface

_**Disclaimer: **_I don't own Twilight. Or the characters. Or Robert.

...Damn it...

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**Preface**

The little brown eyes of the girl, if possible, open wider in shock as the two adults bicker back and forth relentlessly about things that she would never begin to understand. Various objects are thrown around the decent sized room, making indents in the walls and running into picture frames or other glass items decorated around the room. Profanities and vulgar remarks are thrown in each other's faces, making the little girl wince with each cuss word that is spoken. She cradles herself in the corner of the room, covering her hands on her ears to protect them from the high pitched wailing of the woman as the man throws a picture frame at her, telling her how they could be happy, carefree, perfect together. The woman barely dodges it, sending it flying into the wall behind her, the thin, delicate wood frame crushing on impact. Glass shards scatter on the floor, some being sent toward the frightened girl in the corner. The girl looks over across the room to see which picture the man had thrown.

A happy family stands still in the picture, holding the family in what seemed like a happy outing at the park, the little girl in the middle, all smiles as she held both of the adult's hands. The woman looks down at the child, who looks no older than eight, love glistening in her eyes. The man had the little child on his right shoulder, holding her hand so she wouldn't fall, looking at her with the same facial expression—though it didn't reach his eyes, if somebody looked ever so closely. That moment in time would almost fool you into thinking that something like this would never be happening in a warm little home such as the girl was in now. The family was happy. They were open, loving, caring.

Oh, the lies. The lies that were passed through the old walls of the home they lived in; they were sick, malevolent, disheartening to the furthest point. The emotional abuse was taken to levels that would drive a person completely insane. The physical was always the same, spilling blood at every brawl that took place at night. The tears that were shed were always by the two adults; the small child had grown accustomed to it, but was still terrified, for lack of a better word. She would never get any type of comfort from anybody, for she would not tell anybody about anything that happened within the house; In other words, what happened in the house, stayed in the house, as she liked to call it.

She wanted to do something. She wanted to act, wanted to stop all the fighting and yelling and hurting and pain and suffering. She wanted to fix whatever was broken, whether it is an actual object or the two hurt humans standing across the room from her, screaming out coarse language that she hardly understood anyway. She wanted to fix the broken happiness that was supposed to roam free in the people that supposedly took care of her. She wasn't the key, she knew that much—she was hardly even a small ray of light that shone through the rainclouds that loomed over their heads. The clouds poured fear, hurt, anger, and rage. The clouds were spiteful enough to seem like they were laughing at the little girl, taunting her to join in the fun of the argument—though it was hardly that. Penitence hailed on the little girl's conscience, heavy and ruthless. Though she was strong and could handle a great deal of mental pain, the thought seeped through her careful barrier that she set up for herself. Was this, perhaps, her doing? Did she say or do something to set them off into a battle of bloodlust and fury? Could she find out, maybe, if she watched them long enough—could she find the answers to her unspoken questions?

She could only watch, study their faces carefully. There was nothing in her power that could help stop the insanity.

The woman swiftly grabbed a vase from the table in front of her and smashed it across the man's face, the shards breaking off of his cheek and onto the floor. The man didn't yell or grunt, as if he didn't feel the vase crush against him at all. A few pieces cut into his cheek, drawing blood. The man paid no attention to his injuries. They were trivial—just mere cuts that would heal over time, maybe leaving a scar behind, marking one of the many rages that went on through the family, like a tick mark counting the days going by. Just physical marks.

The mental marks that were left in the little girl's mind were still bleeding…ever since the first argument…

"Why don't you listen?" The man slurrs slightly to the woman, indicating slight intoxication. This rarely happened, having a somewhat drunk argument. The two only drank at social outings; the man, however, didn't. This was practically the only thing that the woman was responsible about. She had always acted like a child, always having to be guided by others, surprisingly some decisions led by the little girl shaking in the corner.

The woman doesn't reply. She manages a brave look to linger on her face as she looks at the man and waits for him to say something else. The only thing he does is slap her vehemently across her face, a small gasp escaping her mouth as she takes the blow as calmly as she can. She composes her face quickly, as if she was expecting this. She quickly exhales what breath she had taken in before the hit, turning around to look at him again.

The small girl starts to sob quietly. She is afraid to make a sound, for she thinks that she may follow the same fate as the woman. She doesn't like her best friend being hurt by this sick, twisted man. She doesn't like the pain that he was dealing on her. She could care less about herself—the woman was her only concern.

Her own mother.

"I _said_," the man barks out again, more forcefully this time, "_why _don't you _listen_?" He doesn't care about a response this time—he forcefully grabs her hair and pulls violently, making the woman cry out in pain. The small girl is now shaking with sobs, still afraid to make any sound. He shakes her once, making the woman cry again into the empty space; Empty of people, of emotion, of anything.

The woman glares at the man, her eyes practically sending waves of hate into him. "Because you never give me reason to," she replies finally, grabbing the wrist of the man, trying to loosen his hold on her hair to make it more bearable—his grip was unbreakable at this point, so fighting it was useless.

The man, after a moment of unbearable glaring, tugs at her hair once more before letting go. The woman falls to the ground, letting a small sigh escape her lips in relief.

The small girl hadn't any clue to why they were fighting like they were—for she would never understand why, not even when she finally decided to end it all.

Well, for her, at least.

The girl finally allows herself some small release and lets out a choked sob, tears coating her small heart-shaped face. She rounds up the courage to go upstairs and stands up. She runs past the collapsed woman and the bleeding man, leaving them alone to argue and vent their anger out on other objects around the house. She quickly runs up the stairs as fast as her little legs could take her, turning around in the hallway to her room.

She slams the door shut, the sound slightly startling her because of the welcomed silence that seemed to drift around her room in complete peace. She leans back against her plain white door, slowly sliding down against it until she finally reaches the floor. She curls up her knees and wraps her arms around them, hugging them to her chest protectively. She lets out another choked sob and leans her head against them, welcoming the darkness they brought to her eyes. She cries her heart out in the small but warm space, letting all of her worries and fear pour out of her. On impulse, she swings her arm around and swiftly punches the wall to the left of her, cracking the drywall. She immediately stops crying and holds her fist in the wall for a few more seconds before relaxing her arm to her lap. She takes a quick, shaky intake of breath, attempting to calm herself down.

She needs an outlet. She needs something that she can channel her emotions out of her and through something else. She couldn't live like this all the time and not be able to let it all go. The hurt and the suffering were eating her alive, and she felt the need to help—but how could she, when she could suffer the same things as her mother as suffered? She couldn't help them, so that was a lost cause. She couldn't go anywhere, because she didn't have anywhere else to go. She didn't have any friends or family that she could call and take her away from the awful place that she had the nonexistent pleasure to call home.

She slowly finds herself on the floor, her cheek resting against the cold hardwood below her. She welcomed the sudden coolness, letting it envelop her completely. She closes her eyes but doesn't fall asleep as she desperately wants to—she instead relives every past battle between her mother and the man. She remembers every cut, every cuss word, every bruise, and every scar; remembers every facial expression, every cry, every look, every object thrown and broken, every tear shed, and every comeback thrown away.

She remembers the man always giving her a look that said that she was the most disheartening, burdening thing that ever walked this earth.

Her father.

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So! This is my new story, Nobody's Home. I promise the chapters will be a lot longer than the preface and the rest of the story is a lot better than the preface. There is a lot of music in this one, so if you guys know any songs that can be made into acoustic verisons please tell me. I'm making a small playlist for this and so far I have like 8 songs or something like that.

Also! If you don't like violence (like guns and knives and all that fun stuff that you can run around the house with!) then this story probably isn't for you. But if you like guns, knives and badassness, then you'll love it! Lol.

If you guys have any ideas for anything else (like why they were fighting) or theories, tell me in a review!

By the way, if anybody wishes me a happy birthday today, YOU ALL DIE!

That is all! :)

_-Irrevocably Obsessed_


	2. Chapter 1: Lyrics

_**Disclaimer: **_I don't own Twilight. The oh-brilliant-Stephenie Meyer does. I just like to make her characters do...things... :)

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**Chapter 1: Lyrics**

"_Run, you idiot!" I screamed at the person that I didn't know, beckoning him to follow me. He was petrified, just standing there motionless; possibly in shock or something as he saw the scene in front of him—which, somehow, seemed to faze him more than me. How was that possible? I knew her more than him. I wasn't even sure that he knew her name. I talked to her, I was friends with her. He didn't know her at all._

_But who was she?_

"_Goddammit!" I yelled furiously, grabbing the back of his jacket, getting blood on my hand. Since when was there blood on his jacket? I looked down and I saw the crimson liquid in a pool next to her. When did this happen? Where was I? I was really out of it. This all seemed real, but for some reason, at the same time, it felt like…like…_

_I didn't see the man had come from the shadows with a gun, pointing it directly in my direction. I heard a click that rang in my ears louder than it should have, freezing me in my tracks._

"_You're next," he said with a smile, pulling the trigger at the blonde in front of me._

"No!" I screamed, sitting up on my knees and hitting my head off of something hard above me—and _damn_, did it hurt. I groaned out in the empty yet small space and slumped down, sitting on the back of my legs.

I looked around, realizing that I was indeed not where I was about a minute ago. I saw windows, a dashboard, a mirror, and doors. My truck.

_Damn_ it! Not again!

I grabbed my throbbing head in an attempt to try to hold it together, trying to get my thoughts straight as I tried to settle my breathing and calm down my heartbeat. I needed to stop doing this. It would drive me insane. Well, not that it's already driven me insane.

Almost every day I've been having the same dreams over and over. Each one would be in a different place, but the person I was with depended on that place. I would be with the weirdest people too. Sometimes it would take place in a dark room with a man with blonde hair; other times it would be a man with darker hair. One time I had a girl with dark hair that kept telling me the same thing over and over again, but I could never hear what she was saying because I was hurting so bad—I was in so much pain. I didn't know these people, and I didn't see their faces; but again, I felt like I knew them somehow. Strange, I know. But they were just dreams; nothing to cry over. It's probably just me being my same old paranoid self.

When the pain in my head ceased, I slumped down on the leather seat and just stayed there motionless, again trying to get my thoughts all in one place. My mind was swimming and I didn't like it.

I had to smile at that thought. How could I like anything right now? I was in a truck in the middle of nowhere with nobody else; just me, myself, and I. I didn't have anywhere else to go, I had no friends or family to turn to. Being alone was one of the things that I enjoyed—I experienced this all my life. Nobody to bother me, nobody there to disturb me when I wrote. All I needed was a notebook and a pen. Well, and my guitar. I couldn't leave that part out. All of that seemed to satisfy me. I didn't need anybody else.

My guitar, I guess, seemed to be the only thing that kept me alive right now. Yeah, finally, I found my outlet—music. I always wanted to be a musician, so I just taught myself how to play because I didn't have anybody else to teach me. I guess I'm a decent player—I can play other songs as well as my own. I even write my own lyrics. My singing needs improvement from what I've heard, but that hardly mattered now.

I wasn't anywhere near my home—if I could really call it that. That god forsaken house was far from being anything close to being homey. It was purgatory. Well, not that being in a broken down truck in the middle of a deserted alleyway was any more entertaining.

I picked up my blue jacket from the floor and put it on—it was freezing in the truck. The small blanket that I luckily had with me didn't provide decent warmth for me. My jacket was all warm and fuzzy on the inside—it was really comfortable. I snuggled into it, relieved to feel heat already moving through me. It may not be raining, but it was freezing out.

Despite the cold, I had a cold sweat running down my forehead. These dreams needed to stop or I was going to have to stay up and not sleep at all. Sleeping wasn't a good option, but not sleeping wasn't the best idea in the world. I needed to sleep so I could focus. If I didn't focus, I would never get out of here. I was going to be stuck out here without anybody with me and possibly get killed. When you're in Seattle, you're bound to get hurt by somebody.

I mostly get hurt by myself. I am the klutz of the century, I swear. If somebody else didn't kill me, I'd most likely kill myself by accident just by walking. I'll fall into a hole and snap my neck or something. And I would be forgotten most likely; my name erased from everything, my parents ignoring it. I would die happy. I didn't need any more attention dead than alive—isn't that how it usually works, anyhow?

The things I would give for an Advil right now. I could ignore pain, but really, being tired didn't help with headaches. I was sure it would go away soon anyway—my head was used to being injured. I would endure it, and then it would probably go away. Regardless, it hurt like hell.

I groaned. I was never going to go back to sleep. I was too awake and my head felt like it was on fire. _Screw this,_ I thought, grabbing my notebook (I never went anywhere without it; it had a lot of ideas for songs and some lyrics scribbled here and there) and opening the door of my truck and stepping out not so gracefully. I tripped over my bag and threw myself forward, just catching myself on the door. I sighed and slammed it in frustration as I walked through the alley towards the street across from it, not bothering to lock it. Who was going to find it, anyway? I haven't seen anybody on this part of Seattle, not even a cat. Now _that's_ depressing.

I swiftly turned a corner, looking up at the street sign. _Hollow_ _Boulevard, _it read.

I had to half-smile at that. Hollow—the perfect word to describe how I've felt for the past seventeen years; empty of emotion, empty of creativity, empty of life. Everything that I once had—no matter how little I started out with to begin with—was now gone. Whatever little happiness that I had managed to scrape up in my little world of shit was now completely out of sight. I pretty much had no freaking way to get it back, so I just gave up on being happy. I didn't plan on being happy in the near future. I'd just laugh at myself for the rest of my life. Better than what I was heading toward if I stayed in that hellhole of a house.

I looked over at a flickering street lamp, stopping in the middle of the street just to look at it. I watched its pattern for flickering, but it really didn't seem to have one. I got out my notebook and turned to a clean page, getting my small pen from the metal spiral. Just then, lyrics came up in my head just like that. They weren't the best lyrics, but they were random enough for me to just continue on my own.

In my own chicken scratch, I barely could make out the words that read:

_Let's start over from the beginning  
Let's play for keeps so I know you can never get the best of me  
Sometimes you have to  
And other times you serve  
Whoever saves you and brings you to your knees  
My love…_

Yes, believe it or not, this is what I come up with by looking at a street lamp. My mind was very damaged and crazy, beyond repair. It was especially like this now, when it was nighttime and I was in an open yet quiet environment—perfect for lyric writing, in my opinion. I get more emotional when I was just walking around at night. I had no clue why. That's just how I was.

I kept walking, keeping my notebook open and my pen ready just in case I thought of something to write. I walked slowly for the sake of my atrocious handwriting—I could barely read it like it was now compared to when I walked at a normal pace. Illegible handwriting or not, I kept writing, managing a few more lines before I decided to stop writing and keep walking.

_Beauty fades when she dies  
In a red dress and alone  
But it was the best times  
And you're right to love him  
And you're right to want to  
Close the door and lock me in  
Break the key and chase the blood out of my veins_

I had issues.

I kept the page open but put the pen back in the metal spine. I turned a corner again, the street getting darker as I walked. The street seemed new to me right now, but I knew it was just because I was used to walking around in the daytime. I usually holed myself up in my truck that I loved. It was a run-down piece of shit, but I couldn't part with it. It was too special to me and I was lucky to even _have_ a car. Sure, its top speed was fifty-five and the engine sounded like rocks in a blender, but I still loved it. Can't blame me for loving at least one thing in my life.

Walking further, to my surprise, I saw a person standing against a burnt out street lamp smoking a cigarette. The red ashes on the tip were the only standing out color that I saw on the person. From the height and weight, it was definitely a guy. He was wearing a dark coat; the kind that goes to your hips or lower. I really couldn't make out anything else about him, not even his hair color. It was way too dark on this street. Why did he pick this one to smoke on? There were no houses or anything around where I was, which further proved my earlier explanation about being alone. Unless he…

No. I banished the thought from my mind before I thought it.

I walked a little faster, trying to watch my footing in the process. I didn't want to step in a pothole or something and trip. That would only make the guy come over to me, and who knows what he would do then? I'm sure he wouldn't be friendly if he was out in the middle of nowhere smoking on the darkest street around here. He was business, and I didn't want to be a part of that.

I side glanced him, a chill running down my spine when I saw that he was staring at me. The toe of my shoe caught on the pavement, making my balance go forward a bit, but I easily caught myself and walked a little faster than before. I wanted to get away from this street. I should have never taken this way around the block. If I looked back again, he would probably follow me and demand what my problem was. I didn't need this guy on my ass. I haven't spoken to any one person in a week and a half; I didn't want to break my streak now.

So, with that thought in my head as my motivation, I sped down the street at the fastest walking pace that I could handle without slipping again. This street was a lot longer than the others, so I knew in the back of my mind that it would take a while for me to get to safety and away from this dude. He was seriously creeping me out, even though I really couldn't make out his face or anything about him at all.

I didn't want to, but it was a reflex reaction. I heard something behind me, so I immediately looked over my shoulder with the worst thoughts in my head already flying around.

He was jogging toward me.

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I'm not telling you who it is just yet! So chill! xD Told you it was better than the preface. Or was it? Opinions? Review and tell me!

I've gotten a better response already from this story from the first day I posted the preface. Thank you to who favorited me and added this to their story alerts :)

Also! I wanna give a shoutout to Izobella Snow! Damn I love you girl! Lol. You know I'll be expecting a lot from you! You make my day!

What's weird is that I actually finished chapter two before chapter one, so I'm debating on whether or not to just post the other one right now along with chapter one. If you want it up, review. If not, I'll post it tomorrow anyway. Lol.

Oh, by the way, the lyrics used in this chapter is from In a Red Dress and Alone by Evans Blue. I'll use this song throughout the story so I want to disclaim the song to them. That's like one of my favorite songs. :)

_-Irrevocably Obsessed_


	3. Chapter 2: My Sweet Flower

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Twilight. I don't even own the grass in Forks. Sucks, doesn't it? =(_

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**Chapter 2: My Sweet Flower**

My heart pounding erratically in my chest, I sprinted down the dark and rain-coated street, trying to put distance between myself and the person following in pursuit. I dropped my notebook in my haste, knowing that it was weighing me down—but it killed me to do it.…I probably wouldn't remember the lyrics later. Forgotten lyrics aside, I ran faster down the street, pushing against the road as hard as I could. My muscles were aching from lack of use, begging me for a rest, but I ordered them to quit their bitching and clung on to my jacket for warmth. I know, body heat seemed trivial right now when I could potentially be running from my death—but hey, if that was the case, better enjoy it while it lasted.

I could hear my heart beat in my head now, almost in sync with my frantic breathing as my feet pounded against the slick concrete. Why did I have to pick such a dark street to turn onto? I was barely coordinated to run on a street in broad daylight, let alone a dark one with street lamps everywhere, burnt out or not.

I swear, I was always flirting with disaster. No matter where I went, I was leaving destruction in my path. It just never ceased. I couldn't even talk to somebody without physically damaging them. Or mentally, really. Depends on my mood most of the time.

This had nothing to do with mood. I had really pissed off this person somehow. That really wasn't surprising to me, seeing that I could be a dick sometimes, but pushing them to the point of them wanting to shoot me or something or maybe kill me if I'm lucky? That was kind of far. I've pissed off some really mean people in the past, but this? Damn. My life really did suck.

What could I have done? I've never seen this dude before, and I honestly had no idea why he was running after me like this. All I did was look at him. Maybe he was one of those people who beat up others just because they looked at them funny. I really hoped that wasn't the situation. But, in any case, if I had a choice to be chased down by a likely murderer or go back to what once was my childhood home, I would choose the first. Death was better than that place.

Potential life-sucking or not, I was pretty sure that I had a homicidal maniac on my ass. I really didn't want to, and something was telling me not to, but I looked over my shoulder to see if I lost him or not. I saw, through the darkness, a small figure in the distance, showing me how much I wanted to survive. My muscles really did want me to live. I had no time to thank them though. Every second, in my opinion, counted. If I wasted my time and took a rest, I was dead—most likely in the literal sense. I had to keep moving.

I looked around me frantically, waiting for the perfect opportunity to change streets and get away from this guy for good. It was still dark, but I could still make out a few buildings and streets—but I didn't choose any of them. They were too open, not covered by any trees or cars or anything to hide myself with. I was waiting for a dark alley with an opening to one of the buildings or some trash cans or something. I would then try to obscure myself with whatever was there and then be thankful that it was dark out like this.

But I couldn't carry out this plan I had in mind when I didn't have what I needed in the first place: a stupid dark alley! I mean, seriously, this was Seattle. I spent two weeks in a deserted alley. I roamed the streets and practically memorized the place. I should know at least one goddamn alley. Why was it so hard tonight? Why did everything seem like it was out of place? How come all these streets seemed shifted, like one street should be where that one was? Why did it seem so…unfamiliar?

My thoughts cut off immediately when I saw an opening to my left. I swiftly spun in that direction, briefly slipping on the wet concrete, and ran towards the end of the alley, hoping there was another alley right down from this one. If there was, I would just cut off the rest of the alley and keep running onto different streets. I was trying to make him confused and hopefully get lost. I was really tired; I hadn't run this fast in a while. But this alley was especially dark, so I was a little more careful on my footing. I looked down at the ground, looking to see if I could make out anything that was getting in my way of freedom. I wasn't paying attention to what was in front of my face—the road was my only interest. My hair was getting in my face, and I desperately tried to get it out of my face so I could see.

But, unfortunately, my face mingled with the brick wall in front of me.

My face forcefully bashed against the hard and damp bricks, sending me backwards and on the ground. I slightly yelped in pain, which only made matters worse. I tried to stay quiet while I held my pounding forehead and nose. I was sure that it was broken, but I could hardly cry about that now—I could be potentially facing death any minute now. I could handle a broken nose.

Despite the darkness, I could see stars dancing wildly in my vision. As pretty as they were to look at, I forced myself to stay alert and quiet, making myself try to hear if anybody was coming near me. So far so good, but my face was objecting trying to even make me think about anything else beside the pain. I could now feel some blood coming down my face, but from what I felt, it wasn't too bad—besides, I'd been through worse. I felt a small cut on the right side of my head, but I couldn't tell if it was bleeding or not. Regardless, it hurt like a bitch. I knew I wasn't going to get out of this without getting hurt—but damn. A broken nose and a cut forehead, just because I was stupid enough to run into a dumb wall?

Wow, this sucked.

I shifted into a sitting position, getting a little lightheaded in the process. I wiped the blood from my nose and shook the stars away (and _not_ succeeding), turning away from the wall and looked down the very long, narrow path. Squinting my eyes, I tried to look past the light show that was dancing in front of me to see if anybody was there. I tried to will the stars away, but they just kept dancing beautifully. I tried, for the slightest instant, to hold on to this memory—because it was probably the last thing I would ever see that was remotely appealing to me. I've seen better things, but this was what I was getting, so I took it feebly.

It was eerily silent, beside from the sound of my frantic heart beat and breathing, which I tried to slow. My muscles were glad for the rest, but I wanted to keep moving—but where the hell was I going to go? If I went back out there, I was facing either permanent scars or death. If I stayed here, I could either try to blend into the darkness and bleed with a possible concussion, or I would face the same fates as option one. I definitely wasn't Spider Man, so climbing the wall was out of the question. I was screwed either way. I guess being like this every day should—

I was brought out of my thoughts when somebody grabbed the collar of my jacket, pulling me up forcefully from the ground beneath me. I hadn't seen that coming, so a chill ran down my spine when a hand came in contact with it. This guy wasn't giving me a break—probably because I made him run all the way here—so he practically lifted me from the ground completely. I tried to balance myself on the toes of my Converse, but I kept slipping. I felt the air slowly starting to drain from my windpipe, causing me to groan and choke slightly when I tried to take a breath. I looked up at my potential murderer, but I really couldn't make out his face. I could make out the shape of a ponytail behind him, but I couldn't see anything else. He didn't bother with a mask or a high collar; probably because he figured it would be too dark out for anybody to see anything. Smart bastard.

I heard a sharp noise of metal as I saw the man raise his arm. Something cold and thin pressed against my throat, threatening to cut through my windpipe. I squealed a little, trying to squirm away from the blade—I stopped a second later, knowing that if I moved, it would bring me closer to the knife that's already in close range to killing me. He hummed in humor and pressed it further, now reaching the cutting point. Shit. Now I had to evade a knife _and_ this creep, while trying to get my head straight while running away. How was I going to manage that? I tried to kick him in his crotch, but he was positioned so perfectly that I could only reach his legs. He laughed again at my attempt to escape. So this dude has done this before and was prepared. How could I be screwed further than I already am?

Really, I knew this was going to happen sooner or later. I knew I was going to die on the streets because I was a dumbass to walk around the ghetto at two in the morning because I was bored. I mean, really. How stupid could I be?

Suddenly, something clicked, and the guy immediately started to loosen his grip on my collar and pull the knife away from my neck. This allowed me some freedom to move my neck around slightly, so I tried to get a better look to who was behind him. I heard footsteps that were louder and louder with each step; they sounded like heels or boots or something. What the hell was this?

"Put the knife and the girl down," I heard a clear, feminine voice say slowly, icily. The footsteps stopped, and even though the sound of them weren't that loud, my ears still rang because of my head. The guy that was choking me to death turned his head around to look at the person behind him, giving me the opportunity to look and see who my potential savior was. It was too dark to see a face, but I clearly made out the outline of a black gun in the girl's hand and the silhouette of long hair cascading down her shoulders. She held the gun like she'd been doing shit like this for years.

Now this is what I liked to see in a girl.

The man—who choked me again with his grasp, deciding that this girl wasn't as much as a threat as he thought she was—laughed at the girl. The laugh startled me; it was dead, icy, and shrill—like he's done this before…but most likely won. But why me, why now? Was I just a random person that he could easily put on his kill streak? Was I just somebody that could fulfill his murder high? Or was he…was he…

Was he sent after me?

The man laughed his dark laugh again, louder this time. A chill went down my spine, from the laugh or the possibility that somebody was after me, I had no clue. But, really, what was up with creepy murderers with their really freaky laughs? Was it part of the job description?

"My sweet flower," he said, pushing the blade against my throat again. I was desperately looking for a way that I could disarm him or hit him, but he had me in such a position that I couldn't even go close to doing any of the above.

So they knew each other. _And_ they had nicknames. That's lovely. So both of them could be after me. Though the girl told him to put me down (which I really wish he would listen to her and do so), she could be trying to kill me also—like some kind of contest or something. Whoever killed me first gets a big, badass reputation. Seemed ridiculous enough.

Why was death so fascinated with me?

The girl cocked her gun forcefully again, raising her other arm up to hold it up. She leaned back slightly, getting into position. The guy leaned his head back a little, his ponytail resting on my shoulder. So I had one more detail fished out of him. He had really long hair. Disgusted, I leaned away from it, trying my best not to slit my throat in the process.

"Nice kitty," the man said. "This one is mine."

"Who said that I was into this shit?" The girl said. Her voice was smooth, clear. I hadn't heard her voice before, so there was no way that I could find out who she was. The darkness wasn't helping, and neither was this dude trying to decapitate me with a switchblade.

He laughed again, louder this time. What was so freaking funny? I mean, I knew that I was missing some vital piece of information here, but really, nothing was funny right now. He really_ was_ crazy. I wanted to know what kind of relationship these two had, what the hell the story was. What kind of shit wasn't she into? Killing random people? Who _would_ be into that in the first place?

Well, this guy apparently was.

"So you're just going to sit in the sidelines and watch? Sounds appealing enough…" He cocked his head to the side, like a curious child. "But being in the action is much more fun, my sweet flower."

He moved the blade right underneath my chin, twisting it so he could push my head up more. He played with the knife on my neck, just sliding it across the skin underneath my chin. I had no clue what he was doing, but it was scaring the hell out of me. Or maybe that is his intentions. He was probably just playing with me—trying to get one noise out of me. Well, he hadn't made me cry yet—it was really hard to make me cry. So far, so good. I think.

"I really don't want to use this," the girl said, moving her gun a little to indicate what she was talking about. "It's brand new and kicks ass. But it _would_ be fun to shoot that dirty little smirk off of your face."

He chuckled softly. "You won't do it. I've heard about the things you do, seen the things you've done—you don't have the guts. You'll just keep threatening until somebody is scared enough to do what you want." He stepped forward a little, loosening his hold on my collar and lifting the knife off my neck slightly. "You're just a weak, defenseless girl. All talk and no action. You say you're going to, but I have yet to see you do it."

She scoffed. "You really don't know me at all, do you?" She sighed heavily in irritation. "When will you ever stop?" She asked lightly.

As creepy as this sounds, I almost _heard_ him smile. "Bite your lip and smile," he said calmly. "I have many holes to fill—and I'll find them all."

I wish I knew what that meant. But it didn't matter—I was going to die. Finding out answers was trivial right now. I was going to get butchered and I was going to die.

He took a sharp intake of breath, and I prepared myself for whatever was coming.

He cut the tip of the blade across the skin underneath my chin; just far enough that it would make me bleed massively but not need stitches. Well, that's what it felt like, anyway. I half groaned, half cried out in pain, trying not to show any type of weakness. I hated feeling weak, and when I'm in a position where I'm not even close to having the upper hand, I go crazy. But _shit_, this hurt. Books don't describe it properly enough. They make it sound like it's a paper cut compared to this.

I heard another click, and I saw a few things happen at once.

First off, he removed himself and the blade from me and threw me to the ground—which kind of hurt because I was sent towards the brick wall to the left of me. The girl stepped one leg back from herself and pointed the gun at the man; the guy was throwing himself towards the girl, arms reaching out from him and to what seemed like her throat. Why he did a stupid move like that, I had no idea.

Regardless of his stupidity, he was really fast—and I mean _fast_. I hadn't seen a guy like this—or any guy, really—move this quick. It was like inhuman speed—or I could just be seeing things because of my head.

The girl shot her gun at the man, hitting him near the shoulder. The gunshot rang out into the night, ringing in my ears and getting me closer to the point of having a migraine. The man fell to the ground next to her, making the girl step away from him. He rolled once on his side, motionless. He looked like he was dead, but I knew better. He wasn't. But he was really good at it; I have to give him credit. But I knew he wasn't.

The girl seemed to also.

"Come on," the girl said, grabbing my arm and trying to help me up. She let me hoist myself up with her arm and then grabbed mine, pulling me towards back towards the street to freedom. I saw her put her gun away in a little pocket in her jacket as I ran with her. When we reached the end, we took the right down Maple, the way that I was running from to get to the alley. We took another right down Hollow, pretty much retracing my steps to my alley. I knew the way that I came from, and I was thinking the entire time that she was going to go someplace totally different. Then I would have to try to find my way back to my truck—which was easy if you asked me. I knew Seattle well, even though I've only been out here for a week or so.

What I didn't expect was she was going _exactly_ where my truck was.

* * *

Opinions? Questions? Comments? Tell me in a review.

I have the story line already written out, but seriously, this is taking a whole new direction than I planned. I never planned on somebody having a gun, never planned on her parents fighting like that. But hey, that's what writing does to you. -.-'

_-Irrevocably Obsessed_


	4. Chapter 3: Pain

**_Disclaimer: _**I don't own Twilight. All characters are property of Stephenie Meyer. The only thing that I own is the plot. Excuse me for my suckish attempt at making a disclaimer...

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**Chapter 3: Pain**

You know that old saying, 'When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade?' Well, I don't. I throw them back and tell them to kiss my ass and make your own goddamn lemonade.

Sometimes, I'll try something different and actually accept the lemons—but I end up making grape juice instead. Then I'm left to stare at the mess I made, pondering on how the hell I ended up doing that.

This situation wasn't any different. I was given an opportunity that I had a few ways to go at, and I had made the choice without thinking. In my haste, I had been given the lemons, but I had thrown them out and somehow made apple juice instead. And right now, I didn't even seem to care if I made drugs with it.

I didn't know this girl. I wanted to know what she had to do with me and what connection she had with that guy out there—but I knew that I wouldn't be getting my answer within the next ten minutes. Hell, I didn't even know if I'd ever get my answer. I'd either never see this girl again, or end up dead. I hoped it wasn't the latter.

We turned the corner of the alley that I had been stuck in for the past week, not stopping until we finally reached the front of my truck. She signaled me to sit down, and I complied—I didn't want to make the wrong move. She looked down, breathing rather heavy—her shoulders moved up and down with each deep, raspy breath that she took. I wasn't much different.

I closed my eyes shut, squeezing them out of the pain that now was shooting down my neck and into my collarbone. I could still see the faint light from the street light across the street, and even though my eyes were closed, the light was bothering my eyes. I felt a headache threatening to form in my skull.

She looked up again, her breathing finally starting to regulate. She looked away from me to the left, and then finally behind her shoulder, looking at the street behind us for a few moments. I adjusted my legs so that they weren't at an odd angle—I wanted to be as comfortable as possible. I didn't know what this girl wanted.

"What's…what's your name?" she asked, still sounding out of breath.

After hesitating, I thought _what the hell,_ and then spoke up. "Bella," I said, realizing that my voice was hoarse. I cleared it and said my name again. A nod was her response. She checked behind her shoulder again.

My adrenaline was still racing in my veins, but the pain in my neck was too much to bear. I could feel each beat of my heart in my neck. My pulse wouldn't seem to slow down, no matter how many times I willed it to.

She looked back at me, and then looked me up and down—probably to see if I was all right. "Shit," she muttered, pulling off her very expensive-looking white scarf and balling it up. She started to push it toward my neck, and realization crashed over me just then that I was bleeding because someone almost slit my throat. Shock? Probably. At any rate, that looked like a really nice scarf and I didn't want to ruin it with my blood being all over it. I already caused this girl enough trouble; I didn't need to ruin her clothing.

"N-no," I stuttered, cringing away from her hand.

"Shh," she hushed me, putting one hand on my shoulder gently like we've been friends for the longest time.

That didn't help my situation.

I tried cringing away from her grasp, but she had me pinned against the front of my truck. I mentally swore and stiffened as she wiped from my collarbone and up slowly. I cringed a little because, as gentle as she was, it still stung. Razor cuts hurt like hell, and this wasn't any different. She gently wiped across my neck, all the time that I tried getting away from her. She huffed in frustration and kneeled closer to me, stopping her clean-up attempt.

"Look, I may have a gun, but I'm not going to hurt you," she said, looking at me straight in the face—or, at least I thought she was; it was too dark out to tell. "Believe me, that's the _last_ thing I'd do."

How could I be so sure of that?

I leaned my head back and let her continue, but I had to laugh at her guess. I really wasn't _that_ afraid of her—just a little wary. She seemed like the type of person that you don't piss off, or else you were in _deep_ shit—definitely not the person to mess with. I already had enough injuries on me and I knew I would be too tired to fight back—but, then again, I really didn't think that she was going to hurt me. My earlier fears of both of them trying to hunt me down passed. Nothing took its place besides that small amount of wariness I couldn't seem to shake off. I knew in the back of my head that the man probably was the one after me, but for some reason I didn't worry about that right now. I wanted to find out _why_. Or at least _who_ he was.

Forcing myself to recover from my slight shock, I found my voice and spoke.

"I don't see why you'd waste a nice scarf on me," I said truthfully. Her hand froze in mid-stroke, slowly falling onto my lap. She stayed silent for a moment, looking at me. I don't know why, but I was waiting for her to yell at me to shut up or leave or something. Maybe shoot me if she had the chance. I should just let her do what she wants with me so she could leave. I bet she had a life to tend to. _Aren't we the lucky ones?_ I thought.

To my ultimate surprise, she started laughing.

"I had a feeling you would be different from the rest," she said.

I felt my forehead crease in confusion.

"'The rest?'" I repeated, saying it like a question. Who was 'the rest?' I had a close idea, but I could be wrong. I hoped I was wrong.

I killed her laughter, replacing it with a sigh. She hung her head and seemed to forget about the scarf. With whatever light behind her, I saw the silhouette of her hair, and, more importantly, the color. She was a natural blonde—but I had a feeling that no good blonde joke could apply to her in any way possible. Sure, she had a really good fashion sense, but she definitely was anything but stupid. Besides, there are a lot of rules for dumb blondes—and I'm sure one of them was 'never give a blonde a gun. Enough said.'

"Bella…" she started to say, speaking my name hesitantly, like she didn't know if it was a good idea to know it or not. "Do you know who that man is?" She spoke her words slowly and seriously, trying to get the message across to me.

"No." Obviously. I couldn't even recognize his voice, let alone see his face.

Oh, God, his voice. It was so clear, so smooth. I still heard his voice echoing in the back of my head, making my skin crawl. _Bite your lip and smile,_ he had said. _I have many holes to fill—and I'll find them all._ His words made me sick—and it didn't help that he spoke of death like he was talking about the weather.

She sighed again, through her nose this time. "I'm not going to say much, but I will say this: you're not the only one he's done this to."

I stiffened. So I was right—he _was_ a psycho murderer. He killed for the thrill of it—or, at least, that's what it seemed like. The earlier thoughts I had of him being specifically after me were floating around again. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake the feeling off. But why me? Who wanted me hurt?

Scratch that. _Killed_ was the word that made more sense here. Somebody wanted me dead, and I needed to know who.

This girl seemed to have the answers I needed—but she didn't seem like the persuasive type. How was I going to carry this out? I wasn't even a _persuading_ type, let alone a persuasive type. I couldn't persuade a dog to walk, let alone get questions out of a girl that could hold answers to why a really messed up dude would want my blood spilled. And as much as that was a happy thought, I couldn't make the questions pouring into my head stop.

Well, this was going to work out quite smoothly for me.

I opened my mouth to speak, but she stopped me.

"I'm sure whatever you're going to ask me, I'm not going to be—"

"Thank you," I blurted out before thinking first.

She stayed silent for a few seconds and eventually dropped her scarf into my lap from…I guess surprise. Well, she wasn't the only one.

"…_What_?" She said quietly, as if to herself.

"Thank you…" I said, more slowly this time, "…for saving me. Even though I don't know you—and you don't know me"—I really hoped she didn't—"I'm still grateful."

She still stared at me, dumbfounded. Did she speak English? I was sure she did, because that's the language that she's been speaking. What was the big deal? I said thank you for not letting Sir Creeper slaughter me with a switchblade. It's not hard to respond to that, even thought those weren't my _exact_ words.

"No," she said, "thank _you_."

Okay, that _definitely_ wasn't in my dictionary for responses to 'thank you' in this situation.

"Huh?" I managed to choke out.

"Nobody has ever said thank you to me," she murmured softly. "So, thanks, I guess."

This confused me further. So the guy that tried to kill me has done this before, and apparently I'm not the only one she's spoken to. Why wouldn't they say thanks? She saved their life—at the moment, at least.

That thought sent a shiver down my spine.

A few more awkward moments passed, and it felt like, with each passing second, I was getting closer and closer to her. I felt like I knew her somehow. I didn't know exactly where; but the weird part was that her face was still consumed by darkness—so how could I know her without a trace of identification? Well, besides her hair. That doesn't narrow it down in the least bit anyhow. I didn't know a ton of people to begin with, so that was also a little creepy. I haven't heard her voice before, yet it sounded familiar. To say this was confusing would be an understatement. It was so bizarre it almost scared me—not that I wasn't already terrified. This didn't do much for my disposition, either, and I was still shaken up by the whole situation.

Bad mood or not, I couldn't bring myself to be rude to her—not after what she did for my pointless life. I looked down at the scarf in my lap, studying it carefully. It was white, but I wasn't a fashion expert so I had no clue what fabric it was. Lack of fashion knowledge or not, it looked expensive; was she rich? Or did she just have a lot of friends that were?

_Pointless questions aren't going to get you anywhere,_ a voice in my head said. _You're probably never going to see her again. Just take it slow._

What was I going to say?

She hesitated before speaking to me again. "Bella…" she said. "I know you don't want to listen to a stranger, but you have to trust me on this. Promise me right now that you'll do what I'm about to ask you to do."

She waited for me to respond, so I just nodded.

"You have to leave."

Leave?

"Wait…why?" I asked, stuttering slightly.

"You have to leave here. Go somewhere else." She sighed in frustration and gestured to the pile of metal behind me. "Can't that thing take you somewhere else?"

I shook my head. "Broke down a few days ago. Why do you want me to leave?"

"Do you want to get killed?"

I didn't say anything.

"Then you should leave. Go to a different side of Seattle. Go somewhere. Just…" She paused. "Be careful of where you're going at night."

I tilted my head back in frustration, but that irritated my cut. I winced and tilted my head forward again. The girl sighed.

She looked behind her, then at the sky.

"Who are you?" I finally asked. I readied myself for the answer.

She looked at me again, not answering for a few moments. "I'm Rose," she said, taking a breath and releasing it hotly through her nose. "Listen, Bella, whatever happens, you cannot tell anybody that you saw me tonight. Or him. You _can't_. You don't know….The things that would happen…" She trailed off, looking down.

"I wasn't going to tell anybody," I said honestly. I sat up a little. "Just…tell me what I should do…"

"Please," she said, remorse in her voice, "watch after yourself. Please." She handed me her scarf and stood up, offering me her hand. I took it halfheartedly and pulled myself up, using the truck to hold myself up. She stilled me with her hands and looked at me again.

"Who was that?" I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

She sighed again. "That, I can't tell you." She returned her hands to her sides. "Take care of yourself, Bella."

And with that, she turned around and jogged away.

In my daze, I couldn't think for at least fifteen more seconds. When I finally realized what had happened, I ran to the end of the alley despite my fatigue and looked around the street.

She wasn't anywhere to be seen.

"Fuck!" I screamed at nobody in particular. I made my way back to my truck, almost limping there. My leg hurt from running.

I leaned against my truck, my breath still raspy and heavy. I punched the hood of the truck, a small dent forming into it. After lying there for a few more moments, I wrapped the scarf around my neck gently, knowing that I needed to stop the bleeding—I was already lightheaded enough to begin with. I opened the door of my truck and collapsed against the seat—it suddenly felt comfortable as my head lay on the small backpack that I had used as a pillow just hours before. I fell asleep without warning, the pain in my neck slowly ebbing away with each second that I drifted into sleep, darkness, sweet oblivion.

I dreamt of the girl with the gun.

* * *

Holy shit. What was that, three months? o.o I'm sorry guys. I had writer's block and I just recently got back into the groove of writing again... I know my buddy Izobella Snow helped me out with that :)

THANK YOU to ALL who reviewed and sent me an alert. I've never received so many in my life and I thank you for it :) So this is what I'm going to do. The person who inspires me the most in a review (excluding you, Snow...I already send you the chapters LOL), I'll give you a preview of the next chapter. Does that sound fair for the wait? :D

-Khaos


	5. Chapter 4: Gun and Money

**_Disclaimer: _**I don't own Twilight or any of the characters.

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I was done with the running. I was completely exhausted, done, spent. I didn't even know if I had the strength to merely even walk anymore. But that was me: if I fell down I got right back up, no matter how many times I tell myself that I should just stay down, just fuck it all, stay right here, don't get up. I always had a spark, and still to this day I don't know where it came from.

But here I was, once again, running. From who, I had absolutely no clue, and to be honest, I really didn't care. As long as I got away from them, I wouldn't have a problem. I just wished that I had a gun or a knife—hell, even a chain would do. I wanted to fight back. I didn't want to run from my problems. But right now, I really didn't have a choice.

My neck hurt like hell, wrapped up in the bloody white scarf that Rose had left me the night before, and my legs were sore as fuck from all the running. I was now seriously considering morning jogs. This was getting absolutely ridiculous. I didn't know how much longer I could outrun this guy before I either gave up or tripped.

I turned onto a few back streets, quickly turning left and right, slipping on the wet pavement a few times in my haste, hoping to confuse him. I came behind an abandoned apartment building and hid near the fire exit, curling up against old crates that were worn out with age. And so I waited. I tried to even out my breathing, crouching in an offensive stance, looking between the holes in the crate for the man to come into the alleyway. The rain started to pour, first a steady drizzle, becoming more and more heavy with each passing minute.

Soon he appeared at the end of the street, a gun at his waist. I shivered at the sight, remembering Rose's gun, how sleek and dangerous it looked in her hands. I could only imagine how it would look in this bulky man's hands. He stalked closer and closer to where I was hiding, now walking instead of running. He must have known that I ran here. I hadn't run quickly enough. But I had a plan, and I had to be a pretty badass ninja in order to do it.

He didn't see me as he stalked quietly down the alleyway—his eyes kept straight ahead, not sweeping the street like I expected him to. When he got a step past me, I kept my eyes on his gun and sprung at him.

I smacked my hand at his waist, successfully disarming him, the gun on the ground. Taken by surprise, he didn't react quickly enough, and I kicked the back of his legs, sending him to his knees quickly. I kicked his legs from underneath of him so he was now helplessly on his back, stunned by the blow. I grabbed his gun and swiftly pinned him beneath me, my knees on his arms. I pointed the gun at him, hoping that I really wouldn't have to use it. He looked up at me in disbelief, panting.

"Who the fuck are you?" I demanded, aiming the gun at his head. When he didn't answer, I put the gun directly to his head and cocked it, a clicking noise echoing along the alley. "I said, who the fuck are you? Who sent you?"

"Fuck, stop," he said, trying to get away.

"You move, I pull the trigger," I said. "It's as easy as that."

"James," he said nervously. "James sent me."

"James?" I said. The name sent a shock of disgust down my spine. "What the hell does he have to do with me?"

"The fuck if I know! Now get the hell off me or I _will_ kill you!" He yelled. I spit in his face.

"Listen here, you're not in the right position to be making threats," I said, glancing downwards and then gesturing with the gun. "Now you tell me what the fuck he wants from me, or you'll never see the light of day again, you got it?"

He struggled again at my knees and stopped again so he could talk. "He wants to kill you, happy now?" He spat out, frustration and acid leaking in his voice.

This didn't surprise me. I was sure that last night, if Rose hadn't shown up, I wouldn't be here right now. But it still scared me all the same. Why did this James guy want me dead? I hadn't done anything to him.

"So why isn't he here? Why are you here? Is he scared?" I said, hoping to coax him out of hiding. It was stupid of me to do that, but how else was I going to find out why somebody wanted me on the ground in cold blood?

"Look, chick, I'm not a messenger," he said. "I was sent to find you, that's all."

"How did you know what I looked like, huh?" I asked, trying to get as much info out of this guy as I could. He has been the most helpful so far in providing me some answers, unlike Rose, who probably held more answers that I needed than this guy had.

"He gave me a picture of you," he said, his voice becoming less rugged, like he was giving up.

"Where is it?" I asked.

"Jacket pocket," he replied, gesturing with his head, the gun still resting against it. I held the gun with my right hand and felt around in his jacket pocket for the picture, feeling more and more disgusted each second. I finally felt a square piece of paper and took it out, my jaw dropping at which picture it was.

It was one of my yearbook photos; my senior year, to be exact. I was smiling (it was fake, of course) at the camera, wearing a purple tank top and a dark blue plaid was back when I hadn't dyed my hair black. I noticed the big difference it made from going to a chocolate brown to a solid black. This was the last photo ever taken of me ever since I decided to leave...

"How did..." I shook my head, knowing he definitely wouldn't know the answer to that question. "You know what, fuck it. I'll make you a deal. I'm going to let you go because I'm in a good mood. But if you try to come back, I swear I will attempt to kill you. The picture and the gun stays with me, or it's a bullet in your head, you got it? And you won't ever come back. Oh, and tell this to James: I'm waiting for him, and I'm not scared of his petty little play knife, either."

Where had all this boldness come from?

"Whatever, just get off me," he grumbled, and I quickly stood up, still aiming the gun at his head. I pocketed the picture and held the gun with both hands, realizing then that they were shaking.

He hesitantly got up, his hands raising a little in the air, as if he actually believed that I would pull the trigger.

"You know," he said when he backed up a few steps from me, "I didn't expect you to have guts. But you got nerve."

"Leave before I change my mind, _please_," I said. I wasn't in the mood to be told that I had a backbone.

He slowly turned away, but he had this glint in his dark eye that irritated me further. I watched as he walked away, occasionally glancing over his shoulder at me. I still had the gun raised and aimed at him, sometimes glancing over my shoulder, too. I didn't know if there were more of these creeps.

When I was sure he was gone, I lowered the gun a little and sighed, collapsing to the ground. I felt the knees of my jeans tear a little further than they were already, the concrete digging into the skin of my knees.

I would never have a normal day.

My voice wasn't the clearest to be heard, and my singing wasn't an exception to that statement. My music wasn't any better, but it was a work in progress. And I wasn't being modest—it was the truth. I didn't possess any type of musical talent, but it calmed me somewhat.

As soon as I saved up enough money to get a guitar, all I did was teach myself to play all day. I stayed holed up in my room, ignoring the ongoing rampage of voices downstairs and the occasional shattering noise of any object being thrown or dropped. I wasn't praised or critiqued about my playing in all the years I've played, mostly because there really wasn't anybody there to judge me. I was my only judge, and that's all I'll ever be, it seemed.

I didn't like going out in public for _anything_. But I had to get money somehow—so I would sit in the subway in Seattle, playing my songs that most people would know, imitating the sound as much as I could, my case opened in front of me, hoping that at least somebody would pay attention. I was used to being ignored, though—so I pretended that I was the only one here, in my own little bubble, just playing my guitar.

A small child walked by and looked at me as I played relentlessly while I sat on the ground, leaning against the hard concrete wall next to the stairs that led to the Seattle streets above us. It was a little girl, and she smiled as she swayed side to side at the beat of the song. I changed my song to something sweet, and she giggled. I smiled at her suddenly; I didn't know where it came from, but it felt good.

I heard an adult voice call her name—Jane, I found out—and she looked at her mother and then back at me, quickly running away. I smiled again and looked down at the ground as I continued playing, deciding what I should play next. Suddenly, Jane appeared again and threw something into my guitar case, giggled again, and ran off. That took me off guard, making me stop playing for a moment, but I continued at a slower pace, pondering, but what, I had no idea. I spaced out.

I decided to try out something a little more complicated, and I wished that I had my own amp to plug this thing into—it would sound a hell of a lot better. I tried to hit the notes with my voice as best as I could, and managed to only break it twice—I was somewhat happy about that. The chords came easily to me, my fingers moving swiftly and almost-professionally over the strings.

Two girls walked over a couple minutes later, the smaller one whispering to the other one excitedly. The smaller one had jet black hair with spikes everywhere and the other one was a blonde with much longer hair. I stared at the blonde one for a moment longer, feeling weird as she looked at me with slight panic. I shoved that aside and looked down, just aimlessly playing the most random things I could think of.

I tried playing the best I could—the girls were standing there, just watching and listening. If they wanted a good song, they would get a good song. I've never really had an audience before, so I was slightly nervous—but then I thought, why should I be? It's just two people. Big deal.

When the song ended, the smaller one smiled and tossed something into my guitar case and skipped happily away with the blonde; she still looked panic-stricken. Why did she look so familiar?

I then realized that in my state of thought, I had stopped playing. But then I realized that I had no will to play any more today. I looked at the clock that always stood over top the subway tracks, realizing that it was getting late. I stood up, pushing the guitar strap from my shoulders, and set it gently in the case, ignoring the small amount of money that I had surprisingly made. I quickly ran up the stairs and was blinded by the city lights for a second. I dodged a few people and quickly made my way to the back streets, wanting to get back to my truck. Screw what Blondie said. I was staying for as long as possible.

I ran through the maze of familiar alleys and back streets, a slight amount of rain pelting my head and case. I hoped that my gun that I had claimed from that guy earlier was still in there.

When I reached the truck, I quickly sat down inside and searched the glove compartment, looking through papers and other things for the gun. I sighed in relief when it was still there. It was my only use of protection, though I had no extra bullets to put inside it. Not that I knew how to load a gun, anyway.

I put the gun back in the glove compartment and opened my guitar case, wanting to stash the money somewhere safe so I could eat something tomorrow morning. This was my routine—getting money from strangers from my talentless self and then getting fast food. I hadn't thought first when I left—I could have taken money off my mom or something before I left, so I had at least something to my name. But I was stupid. I left without reason.

I found myself lightly trailing my fingertips over the healing wound on my neck—it hurt, but I found myself able to ignore it.

As I counted the money, I did a double take on one bill that I had thought was a one. I blinked a few times when I thought that my eyes were playing tricks on me.

Someone tossed in a hundred.

I stared at it for a while, not knowing what to do with it. I ran my hands over it, almost as if to make sure that it was real. I didn't want to spend it. Though it could be of great use to me, I couldn't bring myself to even _imagine_ using it. So I put it next to the gun in the glove compartment, closing the door slowly. Dumbfounded, I immediately knew who tossed it in.

That chick with the spikes.

Damn. I'm playing that song more often.

* * *

Sorry I didn't update sooner. :( Short chapter but it has to be for now.

I don't know how much I'll be updating in general because it's winter break, but I'll try. :)

(Even though I hate it), Merry Christmas everyone. :D

-Khaos


	6. Ugh

Good lord, I need to stop with the author's notes.

This is posted on all of my stories.

I'm going to stop writing these stories for a while and focus on some school, because my grades are really bad and nobody seems to want to help a kid with a mental disorder, so. e.e

Anyway, these stories will be taken down, but they will be rewritten.

**The plots will stay the same, the characters will stay the same.**

The story itself will be better written. So don't panic. I know a lot of people liked Sun Through Rain and Flash the most, so I need to rewrite that for you guys. I'm disgusted with how they're written.

**Titles may change. **I'll tell you in the summary what it was originally named if this is the case.

If anybody read Jar of Hearts (one of the newer stories I deleted that nobody reviewed), it's rewritten as Shattered if you didn't already know. If I like how I write chapter two, I'll post it eventually.

I'm sorry to those who liked my stories the way they were. But I promise that you'll like them better. Writing is my plan B career next to acting, so I'm finicky with how I write things.

I apologize if you thought this was an update. In some ways, it was, but I hate to disappoint you guys. I really do. Writing means a lot to me, and when I look at things I knew I should have changed, it hurts me.

I don't know when I'll repost. But please keep me on your author alerts. It's all I'm asking.

-Khaos


	7. IMPORTANT UPDATE, PLEASE READ

Hello everyone. It's been a while. A couple years, actually.

I don't know who goes on here anymore, but I sure as hell didn't. But now that I am, I wanna give you some updates.

I'm posting this message to all of my stories.

Everything that I've written so far is gone. My grandmother's computer experienced a couple hundred trojans and I can't even log onto my user anymore. It keeps crashing. I've tried everything to reboot it, but it keeps crashing. So everything I've written for these stories is gone.

But here's the good news.

I'm going to rewrite everything that you guys want to see. For whoever goes on here anymore, just submit a review or PM me on what you want to see.

I'm also going to be working on another story about what's happened to me over the past two years. This involves me getting engaged, going on probation, my hardships and everything about my relationship with my fiance. I want to write about everything, one chapter at a time.

This WILL take a while. But I'm in the process of a rough draft now.

If anybody else has an idea that they want me to write about, let me know. My writing skills have improved over the last two years. And now that I've graduated out of high school, you'll see updates more often.

I just want to say sorry for making everybody wait. Especially for two years. You guys don't deserve that.

I never had a lot of people like my stories to begin with, but you guys still matter. Everybody matters.

Love,

Irrevocably Obsessed


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